


A Waltz for John and Sherlock

by Mycrofts_Favorite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycrofts_Favorite/pseuds/Mycrofts_Favorite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in love with John, and John's marriage to Mary shoots him back into his drug addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding Night

It was the night of John and Mary's wedding. Sherlock stood over to the side of the dance floor watching, drink in hand. He smiled through his heartache, the pain of John getting married to someone who wasn't him, but John was happy. That was all that mattered to him. Taking a swig and finishing off his rum, Sherlock placed the glass on the table and walked out of the reception hall, grabbing his coat on his way out. He walked out to the parking lot and leaned against a random car, a sleek metallic black Volvo, took out his mobile, and phoned his brother. "Hello, Brother Dear," Mycroft answered. "Are you alright?"

"I can't," Sherlock said. He was out of breath and nearing tears. "Mycroft I can't. I need John. You remember how much he changed me, you were the one who pointed it out. He helps me function. I need him. John Hamish Watson, the man who can make me act human-er." Sherlock was crying now. "I- I can't do this anymore." Mycroft was the only one who knew how he truly felt about John.

"He's always going to be there, Sherlock. It's just Mary will be there, too, sometimes." 

"No, it's not the same. Mycroft, you don't understand. He made me eat, force fed me if need be. He physically picked me up and carried me to bed if he thought I needed to sleep. I've slept for two hours since Wednesday last week. He wouldn't've let that happen. I go home to an empty flat every night since I've been back. I have no incentive anymore. It hurts to not be the person he cares most about anymore." Sherlock was falling apart, sobbing into the phone. His brother had no idea what to do.

"Sherlock," Mycroft didn't know what to say, but this was his brother. He'd known this would happen so he'd already prepared. The back door of the car Sherlock was leaned against opened and his brother slithered out. Mycroft flipped his mobile shut. "In, I'm going to take you home."

Sherlock gave him a weak sort of grinnish scowl and slinked into the Volvo, followed by his brother. "Take me to Essex?" Sherlock asked hopefully. He needed to get high, to forget about the pain of losing the love of his life. To forget about everything for a while.

"For what reason?" Mycroft inquired. He knew quite well what Sherlock wanted, but decided to pretend otherwise for his brother's sake.

"I'd like to make some, er, purchases. It won't be long, I promise." 

Mycroft shook his head no. "Sherlock, no. I won't buy you drugs and I won't let you buy drugs yourself. John would agree with me." Sherlock breathed in a deep sigh, attempting to hold back tears when his brother played the John card on him. His brother had the driver take them to 221b, and once arrived, and Mycroft walked Sherlock in.

"Mycroft why are you being so protective, everybody gets their heart broken."

"Yes, Sherlock, but you're not everybody and everybody does not have a drug habit." The younger of the brothers pouted at the elder's response. "Brother Dear, it's for your own good."

The younger decided that he didn't want anything to do with his brother so he walked away to his bedroom, saying a firm and displeased "Goodnight," to him before closing and tightly locking his door. Sherlock walked over to his bed and lifted the mattress to see a maple box sitting there. He retrieved the box and carefully replaced the mattress into it's original position. The tall man sat down on his bed and laid the box in the center and opened it gently to see a syringe, a neatly coiled strap of elastic, and several small bottles filled with clear liquid.

He retrieved one of the bottles and pricked the top with the needle of the syringe, turning it over and drawing back the plunger to get the substance inside of it. Once the bottle was emptied and his shirt and jacket removed, Sherlock retrieved the elastic strap from the beautiful box. He tied the purple elastic just above his elbow, using his teeth to aid in tightening it. With a little spurt of substance out of the tip of the needle, ensuring there were no air bubbles, the man injected it into his vein. He winced at the initial penetration of his skin, but calmed as he slowly eased the plunger down, releasing the drug into his system. Seconds later, he was filled with a sense of euphoria. All of his heartache was relieved. Sherlock felt as if he could fly, he was in bliss. Absolute bliss. Hit after hit, injection after injection, Sherlock kept this up for hours, putting more drugs into his body to forget about John. He eventually fell into a nightmare ridden sleep, syringe by his side and empty bottles scattered about the bed.


	2. Blue Eyes Met Green

It was a year later and Sherlock was standing at the window looking down on Baker Street with his violin perched under his chin. He was playing out one of his own compositions from a previous date, the Waltz for John and Mary. Tears ran down his cheek as he played, tears making a small puddle at the chin rest of his instrument. His bow slid gracefully along the strings as the tune rang out and filled the room. It was an intentionally somber piece, one to express his grieving over losing his one true love to another person. The door softly clicked telling him that someone had entered the flat, but he paid no mind, finishing the piece with a decrescendo spread over the last four bars. Sherlock moved his instrument from where it sat between his chin and shoulder, to under his arm as he sat down in his respective chair, across from the man with silver woven through his sandy blonde hair.

"Happy anniversary, John. Congratulations on one year," Sherlock said coldly, avoiding eye contact with the man for fear he may lose his cool.

"Thanks, I was wondering if you'd like to come to our party this evening. Sherly's three months old now, hasn't met her uncle and namesake yet." John was careful in his approach. He and Sherlock hadn't had contact since the wedding and no doubt Mycroft had told him of his condition.

"I'd accept, but I wouldn't burden you and your family in that way," Sherlock was trying to talk himself out of pleading yes. He willed himself to be strong, telling himself that John was inviting him only as a courtesy.

"Why would you think yourself as a burden, Sherlock? I miss you, haven't had so much as a text in 12 months." Sherlock was mentally berating himself for drawing distant from the one he loved.

"No, not that, but I wouldn't RSVP for a party I wouldn't be able to attend. My apologies," Sherlock wanted to go more than anything, but he couldn't. It was too much for him.

"Oh, no, you're fine. I should've asked ages ago," He gave his friend a look, asking him if he was okay. The lack of response made John worry. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

The taller man met John's gaze for the first time, losing himself in those deep green eyes, wise and strong. "Yeah, I'm okay. Haven't had a case in a few days is all." John nodded slowly, not believing Sherlock's oh so obvious lie, but not wanting to pry.

"I should probably get going then, I'll see ya around mate." John stood up and left the flat, releasing himself from the awkward tension of the situation. Sherlock stayed in the same position for hours, staring off into space. He walked slowly into the bedroom and retrieved his stash of heroin from under the mattress. It was seven o'clock. The tall, lanky man had his mobile at his side. He injected himself twice at that time, intensifying the high. It wasn't a pleasant high, though. It had stopped bringing pleasure and bliss a while ago. Now all it did was remind him of his own pain and suffering. Dose after dose, he knew an overdose would kill him shortly. He called John with the phone on speaker, and his friend picked up immediately. "Sherlock, what is it?" John sounded worried.

"Please, come here. Alone, come." Sherlock couldn't form any coherent thoughts or sentences, spurting out all he could muster. John hung up and arrived at the flat within 10 minutes, which was enough for the misery filled Sherlock to give himself two more hits. John burst in and ran to the bedroom. His friend's breathing was already labored.

"A Waltz for John and Sherlock. The original title to the piece," Sherlock said, a small, sad grin on his face.

"What? Sherlock, what are you talking about, I need to call an ambulance." John was scared. Sherlock was already laying down, but John propped his head in his lap.

"The tune, John, that I wrote for your wedding. I wrote it for you and I specifically. John Watson. I love you, John." Those were the last words that Sherlock Holmes ever spoke. With one last gasp for breath, Sherlock died in John's arms, blue eyes meeting green for one last instant as Sherlock finally spoke his mind.


End file.
